


Red and Black

by callay



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: Angel Sex, Heightened Archangel Senses, M/M, Smut, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/pseuds/callay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Furiad's confrontation in the motel takes a turn, and Michael fills a need he didn't want to admit he had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red and Black

**Author's Note:**

> For [teawithmrpond](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_with_mr_pond), who [requested this](http://theslashhack.tumblr.com/post/94634122466/do-you-take-requests-prompts-i-would-love-someone-to) on Tumblr! Hope it didn't get too weird! :)
> 
> I had to get a lot of second opinions on stuff like the angel hierarchy, so thanks to everyone who helped out.

Michael can smell Furiad before he even enters the motel room. The scent of a Power, sharper even than that of other higher angels, easily pierces the mug of dust and grime in the air. Over that, the smell of Furiad’s sweat and arousal. Ah, yes, Furiad thought this was a rendezvous with Noma, that must be what he's worked up over.

Then Michael rounds the corner and goes into action. He’s through the doorway and on Furiad, bearing him back to the wall. Michael hears Furiad’s sharp indrawn breath, hears his heart rate double. There’s a new smell on Furiad’s sweat now. Fear.

A thrill floods over Michael. He never forgets the power of this, the hot bitter smell of fear, the intoxicating taste of it in the air. He wraps a hand around Furiad’s neck, feeling the pulse of blood underneath.

Grunting, Furiad tries to push him off, reaching for his sword. Before he can, Michael slams him back into the wall, hard, and presses his own blade to Furiad’s throat.

Furiad doesn’t struggle after that, but he stares up at Michael. “Show mercy,” he grits out. It’s obvious from the skitter of his heart he’s afraid for his life, but there’s still defiance in the way his red eyes are locked on Michael’s.

And that makes Michael want to bare his teeth, smile at Furiad as he leans in even closer. He doesn’t want to show mercy. He wants to see dark red blood on Furiad’s crimson armor, wants to taste the copper taste of it.

But he swallows down the phantom taste of blood. Takes a breath, and waits for the distant roar like water in his ears to dissipate.

He needs to scare Furiad, bend him to his will. Not hurt him.

“What would Gabriel do to you if he knew you were having a tryst with my lieutenant?” he asks, menacing.

And that’s it, Furiad’s eyes dart away, alarmed.

Michael savors his victory for an instant. His words provoked a strong reaction in Furiad, not just the way he looked away, but in the pound of his heart, the shaken rhythm of his breath. The smell of fear is strong and then there’s something else too. Arousal.

That’s interesting. The musky scent of lust was clear when Michael arrived, but this is fresh. Michael wonders if it’s mention of Noma that triggered it, or mention of Gabriel.

Because the scent of Gabriel still clings to Furiad, dark like leather and smoke. That’s not surprising, but it does make Michael wonder. If Gabriel learned of Furiad’s liason with an ally of Michael, he would certainly punish him. But, Michael thinks, what form would the punishment take? Imprisonment, beatings, torture in a dark prison cell?

Or would Gabriel punish him in front of a room full of eight-balls? Strip him, humiliate him in front of all those greedy black eyes?

It’s easy to imagine. Gabriel always liked his playthings pretty, thinks Michael, looking down at Furiad’s smooth, handsome face. And in imagining it, Michael feels something else, not quite bloodlust but not so very different. It washes up his body, hot and tingling, at the mental image of Furiad on his knees for Gabriel. On all fours, ashamed and aroused all at once. All golden skin and muscle in the candlelight.

But desire has no place in what he’s trying to do here, so Michael does his best to bite it back, push it down. He’s glad that Furiad’s an angel of the second sphere, not an archangel. If his senses were as sharp as Michael's, he'd certainly detect Michael’s arousal, but Furiad shows no reaction to it.

There’s still both fear and lust in Furiad’s scent and in the quick beat of his heart. Michael wants only fear. Fear and submission. Glaring at Furiad, he growls, “I’m sure your death would neither be swift nor painless.”

Michael hears Furiad draw in a sharp breath. Even if he does get a twisted pleasure out of Gabriel’s typical punishment, he can’t help but be scared by the prospect of death. Michael has him now. If Furiad flies off and betrays him to Gabriel, Gabriel will know him for a traitor and kill him. Michael’s blade is biting at his throat and Furiad has no choice but to spit, “What do you want?”

For a moment Michael just considers him, tilting his head and staring into Furiad’s red eyes. Furiad keeps glaring at him, but his body is telling Michael how close he is to surrender with everything else it has, heartbeat and breath, scent and widened red eyes.

The rushing in Michael’s ears is back. His body is hot with lust, for Furiad’s blood and for his body, so strong and beautiful in Michael’s head. He knows the one is out of the question, but the other…

The best option is to explain the plan to Furiad and send him on this way. But Furiad is beautiful and reeks of desire and it’s been too long since Michael has been with an angel.

Michael is weak.

He sheathes his sword, and before Furiad can react, leans in and kisses him on the mouth.

Instantly Furiad kisses back. It’s graceful and violent all at once, a forceful clash of tongues. Furiad tastes cold and sharp, like metal. Nothing like the soft sweet taste of humans, and Michael licks eagerly at his tongue. His body thrills at it, the power of Furiad and the submission of him, the way he invites Michael’s tongue to invade his mouth and then attacks it with his own.

Michael feels the tension building in his stomach, curling up through his chest, gathering in his back. He growls around Furiad’s tongue as his wings burst free, air rushing through the feathers as they straighten. It’s a release of tension to have them out, but they curl instinctively toward Furiad and Michael desperately needs more, wants contact.

Furiad gasps and spreads his wings in response. They arc around him, a little lower than Michael’s, submissive. Eagerly Michael reaches out with his wings, touches Furiad’s, feels –

Cool, hard metal.

Michael draws back, wings beating once in frustration. He eyes the armor that runs along the top of Furiad’s wings. “Take that off,” he orders, stepping back to give Furiad room. Then, looking at the armor that covers Furiad’s body, “Everything.”

“I can’t take it off with my wings out,” grits out Furiad.

“Then put them away,” says Michael curtly.

“I can’t,” says Furiad, and Michael understands completely. Michael’s own wings are hot and sensitive, and he doesn’t think that he could put them away either. He can feel the blood pulsing in them and the brush of air against each feather, and they’re straining for Furiad, desperate to be touched. If Furiad feels a fraction of the same thing, putting his wings away now will be difficult and uncomfortable.

But Furiad has to, or neither of them will get anywhere. “Try,” Michael tells him.

Furiad grimaces and turns his back on Michael. And maybe that helps him, but it doesn’t help Michael, who now has a full view of Furiad’s wings. Crimson red, thick with soft feathers. The pinions at the bottom are long and wickedly sharp, the feathers of a Power. Furiad’s wings fold and thrash as he tries to put them away, and Michael watches with his heart pounding and every part of him itching to touch, but knowing that would be counterproductive.

Finally Furiad grunts and his wings slip away. Immediately he tears at his armor, undoing straps and lifting off pieces. Meanwhile, Michael takes off his jacket and shirt, struggling to pull them over his wings. There’s no way his wings are going away when he gets to watch as Furiad’s body is revealed, first the lean strong form of him, then his smooth golden skin as he strips off the rest of his clothes.

Then Furiad turns around, naked and beautiful. Michael surges forward, at the same moment Furiad’s wings burst free, and they fit together perfectly. Body against body, mouth against mouth, with Furiad’s wings curled close around them and Michael’s wings against Furiad’s, pressing in.

It’s been a long time since Michael has felt another angel’s wings under his and it’s almost overwhelming. Furiad’s wings respond to the pressure of Michael’s by pushing back, alternately strong and yielding in a rippling motion from base to tip. Michael’s wings instinctively match in rhythm, maintaining as much contact as possible as Furiad’s pulse under them. The movement slides their feathers against each other, silky friction that sends thrills through Michael.

It’s almost like flying, the rhythm of their wings, but it’s so profoundly, deliciously different. It pounds in Michael’s heart, boils in his blood, escapes into Furiad’s mouth as short gasps. Michael’s body sings with it, like this is what it was meant to do.

His mouth is full of Furiad’s tongue and Furiad’s taste, and his nose of full of Furiad’s smell, cool and metallic under a heavy layer of sweat and musk and need. Michael can smell the hint of precome between them, and still, distantly, the dark scent of Gabriel. He hears Furiad’s heart racing, his breath catching on rhythmic grunts, and the rustle of their wings together, a surprisingly soft and delicate sound for something that sends such powerful waves of pleasure crashing through Michael.

Reaching around Furiad’s back, he rubs at the base of his wings, pulls lightly at the feathers there. Furiad reacts instantly, body thrashing against Michael’s, wings tensing. Michael cards through the feathers on the inside of Furiad’s wings and Furiad groans a low, helpless groan into Michael’s mouth.

Michael swallows it down, relishes it. Relishes the way Furiad looks when he pulls back enough to admire him, gorgeous, unabashedly naked, skin shining with sweat. Furiad’s eyes are closed and his lips are wet and red. Red is everywhere, the flushed tip of Furiad’s cock and Furiad’s wings, pressing in tight around the pair of them, crimson feathers shifting with each flex.

And then Furiad opens his eyes, red but with brilliant gold flecks, challenging. Without breaking eye contact, Furiad reaches down and fumbles to open Michael’s pants until he can pull Michael’s cock free.

Pleasure is already rolling in from Michael’s wings, each pulsing outward push of Furiad's wings pressing them closer, and it spreads in waves through his entire body. Furiad’s hand on his cock is barely an afterthought, a single brilliant stab of sensation amidst the deep ocean of their wings moving together. 

But it’s enough to push him onto the brink of release, almost close enough but not quite. Furiad has one hand on Michael’s cock and one hand on his own, stroking in time with the motion of their wings. He’s almost snarling, panting in Michael’s face. Michael glares down at him, wants Furiad to look away, wants _submission_.

He brings his wings out, away from Furiad’s, and hears Furiad suck in a breath at the loss of contact before Michael claps his wings back in, pressing as hard as he can against Furiad’s. The shock of the sudden connection runs through Michael’s body, electric. Furiad grunts, body stiffening, and his eyes squeeze closed.

Satisfied, Michael leans in and pushes his tongue into Furiad’s mouth, digs his fingers deep into Furiad’s feathers. He pulls his wings outward for another flap. Except this time Furiad’s wings push out to meet his on their way in, connecting with a burst of sound that’s muffled by the feathers and a burst of pleasure that rockets unabated through Michael’s body. 

Whatever restraint they had before dissolves, until their wings are just frantically beating together, a storm of black and red. Their bodies are buffeted into each other by the motion, mouths pulling wetly apart and then reconnecting.

And then Michael hears Furiad’s breath catch and hold, feels the tremble of his wings as he comes. It feels like triumph, and every part of Michael tightens for a moment before he comes too, harder than he has in years, a rush of sweet relief.

As soon as the last tremors work their way out of Michael’s wings, he lets them fall to his sides, stepping back. He takes a deep breath, tasting both of their scents in the air. In spite of everything that’s going on, he feels calmer than he has in a long time.

Furiad is catching his breath too. He doesn’t look at Michael. “I should find somewhere to clean up,” he says, voice slightly hoarse.

Michael wonders what Gabriel’s reaction would be if Furiad returned like this, reeking of sex, Michael’s scent on his skin and worked into his feathers, and agrees.

Michael himself only needs an old but clean towel from the dresser to clean his skin. Where he’s going, there are only weak human senses, incapable of gleaning anything about what happened here.

He draws closer to Furiad, puts a hand around his throat again – just enough to make him look up. “You will take Noma to Gabriel,” he says. “You will follow her lead. This... conversation didn't happen.”

“Yes,” says Furiad. And his red eyes flick down.

Michael turns away, dresses quickly. When he spreads his wings, there’s a sweet ache in them, and he allows himself to relish it as he takes off and leaves the motel behind.


End file.
